The Only Way to Go Is Down
by lovablegeek
Summary: [Alternate Universe] There are three things worth living for. In an instant, two of the three are gone, and the other doesn't matter so much anymore. MarkRoger, RogerApril, RogerPam [One shot]


For all that you're a musician, an aspiring frontman of a band, you aren't into that whole... scene, the partying and the girls and the drugs. It isn't your thing, you're in it for the music and if your band mates want to get into it, if the people at the clubs you frequent do so, it's none of your business. If glass-eyed girls and guys high on smack or coke or E or what the fuck ever throw themselves at you, you can always neatly sidestep it with a quick smile, a charming comment, and never make any real connection. You know it's safest that way.

Mark somehow sidesteps all of the precautions and barriers you have up, just by being Mark. He's smart, and artistic, and even with the haze of heroin in his eyes, there's something sharp and incisive about him that you want. It's not even that you want to kiss him, or fuck him, or for him to fuck you, it's like just by being close to him you're warmer, brighter, something more than you are without him.

And he wouldn't hurt you, so when he offers the needle with a smile, you don't know what to say but yes.

* * *

Mark actually introduces you to April. Actually, he shoves her at you with a dismissive, "This is April, she knows more about music than me. Talk to her." So you talk to this girl with the short-cropped, spiky blond hair, and ask her the question about your new song that you meant to ask Mark, though nothing she tells you can help, because really all you wanted to know was whether Mark likes the song you wrote just for him.

Still, you like her and her smile, and you can't fault her for that drugged haze when you exist in it half the time yourself. She's smart and sweet, and her kisses are gentle and velvet-soft and nothing like Mark's, because when Mark kisses you it's harder, Mark controls it, and his goatee tickles your chin. She's softer, all curves and delicate skin and tender, secret places you want to explore, run your fingers and tongue over.

Mark is all angles, sharp hipbones and a broad chest where you can feel the ribs just underneath, the bend of his arm as the needle pierces skin patterned with scars, the arc of his spine as he leans over you, his lips pressed to the back of your neck, pressing himself into you. You're not sure which you like more, the soft delicacy that envelops you, or the angles and edges that you willingly crash against, over and over. It doesn't matter, because you've got April in her glowing warmth, you've got Mark in his searing brilliance, and you've got the smack, in its ever-present late afternoon, lazy summer sunlit daze. You almost think you can go on forever with just those three things.

* * *

You're lying on the floor of the bathroom, cheek pressed to the cold linoleum, barely remembering to breathe. Breathing is necessary for survival, but then, you don't care much about that just now. All that matters of life is gone now.

Mark packed his things and left the second he found out the results of the test, camera in hand and talking to no one in particular about some kind of documentary, without even a note, a kiss goodbye. April's departure was more explosive, when she got her results, and found out all that you'd done with Mark – screaming from her, apologies from you, crying from both of you – but in a way, it was Mark's that hurt more.

Two out of three gone, and the third thing you bothered to care about... you can't bring yourself to move from this place, let alone find your dealer. You lie there, chill of the tiles seeping into you and you don't give a shit. You're already shivering from the beginnings of withdrawal, so the cold barely registers as such. A wave of nausea hits you abruptly and you scramble to your knees, bend over the toilet heaving and retching, but there's nothing in your stomach, and in a minute or so you lie back on the floor slowly, chest heaving with broken sobs.

You're going to die. The test results told you that much, but you can't wait. Can't quite take the step to end it now either, though, whether it's with pills or a knife or taking a walk off the roof. You can just lie here, hurting everywhere, inside and out, and hope sooner or later you're going to fall asleep and not wake up. Oh God, please, let it be soon.

* * *

The pangs get the better of wanting to die. You still want to, but the withdrawal doesn't do anything but make it more painful, and you can't stand the bone-deep pain, the nausea and chills, so somehow you struggle out of the loft, head down to the park to hunt down your dealer, though that had always been something Mark did before, and now...

You don't think of Mark now. Except that's not true. You barely think of anything but Mark these days, and when you do, it's April. Outside feels like a foreign place. You're huddled into your jacket in the park, arms wrapped around yourself – and you're thinner now than you were even a few days ago, the jacket doesn't fit you like a second skin the way it used to. There's no trace of your dealer, and you're starting to doubt the wisdom of leaving home, but God, it hurts, everything hurts, and just one hit would make it all go away for a little while...

Your vision blacks with a sudden rush of dizziness. You sway on your feet, stumble, and the world disappears for a moment. Everything's black, and your ears are ringing. When your vision clears and the ringing fades, there's a small hand on your shoulder, someone leaning over you; it takes a moment for you to realize you're on your knees on the ground, you must have fallen...

"Are you alright?"

You look up to meet the woman's wide, sad eyes, choke back nausea and shivers, and slowly push yourself to your feet as you murmur a soft, "Yes," though you know that you are anything but 'alright'.


End file.
